“I am the Deputy Lock, on job, and this is the lock-house. (Lock or Deputy Lock, it’s all one, while the t’other man’s in the hospital.) What’s your parish?”
“Parish!” She was up from the truckle-bed directly, wildly feeling about her for her basket, and gazing at him in affright.
“You’ll be asked the question down town,” said the man. “They won’t let you be more than a casual there. They’ll pass you on to your settlement, Missis, with all speed. You’re not in a state to be let come upon strange parishes ’ceptin as a casual.”
“ ’Twas the deadness again!” murmured Betty Higden, with her hand to her head.
“It was the deadness, there’s not a doubt about it,” returned the man. “I should have thought the deadness was a mild word for it, if it had been named to me when we brought you in. Have you got any friends, Missis?”
“The best of friends, Master.”
“I should recommend your looking ’em up if you consider ’em game to do anything for you,” said the Deputy Lock. “Have you got any money?”
“Just a morsel of money, sir.”
“Do you want to keep it?”
“Sure I do!”
“Well, you know,” said the Deputy Lock, shrugging his shoulders with his hands in his pockets, and shaking his head in a sulkily ominous manner, “the parish authorities down town will have it out of you, if you go on, you may take your Alfred David.”